


Molly's Christmas, or Sweater Weather

by deliriusblack



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Gen, I'm not sorry, christmas and may are really hard for her, fred feels, molly has some issues, this is feelsy sorry
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-02-24
Updated: 2016-02-24
Packaged: 2018-05-23 00:59:09
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,402
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6099640
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/deliriusblack/pseuds/deliriusblack
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Molly Weasley does the same thing every year around Christmas.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Molly's Christmas, or Sweater Weather

**Author's Note:**

> This is also on my wattpad (deliriusblack) but if you see it anywhere else it has been stolen so please report it. i hope you enjoy, make sure you have some tissues handy <3

Christmas had always been a difficult time for Molly and Arthur Weasley. Having seven children and not a lot of money, they seldom could buy gifts to match the caliber of presents received by their children's peers. Molly hoped that her children knew it wasn't because she and Arthur didn't love them as much. She believed, she prayed, that she had taught her children that the truly important thing about Christmas was family. She had always stressed the importance of telling the people you love that you love them whenever given the chance. 

She knew that Percy hadn't really grasped that family was the most important thing at first. He always asked, as a child, "If you and Daddy want to buy us presents, why don't you work more?"

Molly had never known how to respond. It wasn't that simple, she wanted to tell him. She had to stay at home because they couldn't afford a nanny to look after all seven children, and although Bill and Charlie were responsible enough, she didn't feel right giving them that responsibility. Arthur already took on all the extra shifts he could. She wanted to tell him they were doing the best they could with such a big family. Sometimes she wanted to yell at him for being ungrateful for what they already had. Sometimes, at night, she would curl up to Arthur and ask him where they went wrong. Did she not tell them how much she loved them every day? She thought she had. 

Arthur thought she was crazy. He had, after all, grown up with two other brothers, and although they were distantly related to the Blacks and the Malfoys, they too had not a lot of money. His parents put him in charge of his brothers all the time, and although they were dead now, dead in the war against Voldemort, he thought they'd turned out fine. 

Molly knit, every Christmas, a sweater for each of her children in turn. Bill first, then Charlie, and Percy, who almost always scoffed at the sweaters, but whom she loved anyway. Fred and George next, with their first initials on the front (although why she bothered she didn't know, they always switched when they felt like it anyway). Ronald, in maroon, which had been his favourite colour when he was a baby. He used to not play with anything green or blue or pink or orange; only maroon would make him happy. Finally, Ginny. Molly's only daughter. 

When Molly found out she was having a girl when she was pregnant for the sixth time (twins only count as one pregnancy, right? She thought that was how it worked.), she went into her old storage bins and dug out an old knitting pattern she hadn't used since before Bill was born, and she marked out the size she used to be, and tucked it under her bed. When Ginny turned 13, Molly stopped making her the same sweaters as the boys got, and dug out the pattern. She made Ginny a sweater fitted exactly to her measurements. When Ginny put it on that Christmas, it hugged her budding figure rather than draping over her. Molly was tearful. 

Now it's 2016, late November, and Molly has started her knitting again. Arthur is skeptical. "You can't knit sweaters for all the kids and grandkids in time, Mollywobbles. Your fingers aren't that fast." But Molly is determined, more than ever, to show her children and grandchildren what Christmas is really about: family. She also can't wait for the family picture. It will be crowded, yes, but there is nothing better than looking up at her entire family smiling back at her while she knits. 

Molly counts her grandkids, one by one, and makes a list. She never forgets anyone, but she's paranoid she will one day, and make that child feel unloved. She wants the whole world to know how much she loves her family. Fabian and Gideon used to call it her "young maternal instincts" when they were children. She only wished she had knitted them sweaters too. 

There's Molly (the second. That always makes her tear up.), and Lucy. That's Percy's side. Then George's twins, Fred and Roxanne. (That makes her tear up too, but for different reasons.) Ron's two, Rose and Hugo, that makes six. Then Ginny and Harry's three; James, Al, and Lily. Nine grandchildren, plus Teddy, who makes ten. Ten grandchildren plus seven children- she stops. She doesn't have seven children anymore. She looks over her shoulder at the pile of already-knitted sweaters. There are seven. One fitted, one maroon, one with a G, one with an F. She can't breathe. Her heart is constricting against her. Is this what cardiac arrest feels like? No. She knows it isn't. Because it's what she feels every April 1st, every May 2nd, every Christmas. This is not a heart attack. This is pure grief. 

She kicks at the sweaters. It isn't fair, it isn't right, she already lost all she could with her brothers, she cannot lose a son, but she did. Her Fred. Her prankster Fred, with his jokes and his inventions. She hadn't supported him enough at first and this was his revenge. No. No, she won't let herself think that. She knows it wasn't his fault he'd di- he- well. 

She apologizes to the sweaters. Picks them up. Wraps six of them. The seventh, the one with the F, she picks up and cradles in her arms. She lets her hot tears spill down her face and onto the soft wool as if that will bring him back. She carries the sweater to her secret closet, the one not even Arthur knows about, and opens the door. She looks at the floor, at the pile of sweaters, because of course she does this every year. She can't not knit a sweater for Fred. 

The first Christmas was the hardest. That one wasn't even finished. In early December of 1998, she sat down to knit and didn't move her needles. She was frozen by the pain of loss. Arthur found her there, hours later, the tears crusted to her face, her arms still clutching an unfinished sleeve. Every year since then, she has finished Fred's sweater the same way she always has. Every year since, then, she's carried the sweater to her secret closet. 

She falls, sinks to her knees slowly. She curls into the pile of sweaters with all the Fs on them. She will not cry. She will not grieve anymore. 

Those, of course, were lies. It has been eighteen years, give or take, and still the pain never dwindles. Not a day goes by that she doesn't miss him. She misses his jokes, the way he and George would finish each other's sentences, apparating down the stairs when they turned seventeen. She misses even those days that he hated her, when he was a surly teenager full of anger and he and George would go to their bedroom and slam the door, when he yelled at her that she didn't care about their dreams. She missed going to her room, to Arthur, crying and asking him if she was a terrible mom. She missed those days she felt like a failure because of him, because at least on those days he was alive. 

He would have been about thirty-eight now. Same as George, obviously. She can't help but wonder what was in store for him. Had he lived, would he have been married? With children, perhaps? Twins, like George had. Molly had a whole life for Fred mapped out in her brain. It was even worse, the grief, now that she had made that up. The Fred in her mind would not have died until he was very old and she, Molly, had already passed. 

Sometimes Molly wondered about the day she was going to die. Would Fabian and Gideon and Fred be there? Would they resent her, or welcome her? Were they watching her right now? Waiting? Did Fred know how many tears she had shed for him? Was he sad? She hoped not. He deserved greatness. 

After some time has passed, Molly doesn't know how much, she picks herself up, dusts herself off, and pulls herself together. She has ten more sweaters to finish before Christmas. The hard part is over. 

Until next year, Fred. Until next year.

**Author's Note:**

> i hope you enjoyed my story. if you did (or if you didn't), why not drop a review? they make me happy <3


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